And Just Where the Heck Have I Been?

In January I signed up for a 5k walk, the Chocoholic Frolic.  5 kilometers is a little more than three miles, and after pushing myself through all the cancer and surgeries and other events over the past three years, I felt that a little challenge was in order.  I signed up, got a friend to join me, and even bought a new pair of walking shoes for the event.  I felt very good about the whole thing.  Yay me. 

The second day of February, my throat hurt.  I went to the doctor for a strep test, and walked out with antibiotics and a steroid shot.  Usually, the medicine works, and I'm back on my feet again after a couple of days.  This time, I started feeling worse, but it wasn't in my throat, it was now in my chest. I used my inhaler often, but I was still having trouble breathing.  I also had no appetite, which should have been a huge red flag for me.  I dropped ten pounds in two weeks, and not in a good way.  No eating meant no energy to do all the things I missed out on while I had cancer.

Larry was very firm:  I was not doing the 5k, he insisted.  I was sick.  He, of course, forgot about the huge amount of stubbornness in my DNA. Nobody can tell me that I can't do something! I was on a mission, to prove that I could do this one thing.  It took on mythical significance in my mind.  If I didn't do the 5k, that meant that I had given up. That was my perspective

I did the 5k.  I woke up that morning, did not have a fever, and felt that I could complete the walk.  So I did.  I showed up, walked very slowly, and finished.  I consider this to be a great accomplishment for me, a generally sedentary soul.  Larry said he was proud of me, but he also yelled a little at me for being so stubborn.  I didn't argue with him. I felt too horrible. 

There were consequences, in the form of bronchitis. I felt as bad as I did when I was on chemo!  I ended up with more antibiotics, more steroids.  They helped a little.  Then came a sinus infection and VERTIGO.  Yes, vertigo. I didn't even know that was still a thing.  If you've never had vertigo, it's like you spun yourself around and around until you make yourself dizzy, but your brain never returns to normal.  I couldn't turn my head without nausea, the bane of my existence.  I will do just about anything to avoid throwing up.

My body had had enough.  I simply had to rest, whether I wanted to or not.  It's no use trying to push yourself when you end up worse off. That sort of defeats the purpose of a challenge, burning yourself out like that.   I took a couple of days and just slept.  I took the third round of antibiotics and the drug for vertigo and I slept like my life depended on it, which it probably did.  I also ate, even if I wasn't hungry.  Taking care of myself became a priority this week. 

And today, I feel relatively normal.  I'm not dizzy, I'm breathing okay, and I'm awake.  I think I've learned a lesson--that I don't have to push myself so hard. I can still do the things I did before cancer.  I just have to take care of myself differently, and do what my body tells me. 

I Could Have Never Survived The Fifties

Over the years, I've been operating under the delusion that I would be able to fit in during just about any time period, after some adjustments.  I'm a pretty adaptable person, and I read quite a lot of historical fiction.  This week has led to an epiphany regarding time travel, however.  I will not be visiting the early twentieth century.  Why wouldn't I survive what is known as a wonderful decade, full of economic prosperity and growth?  The decade of Eisenhower and Happy Days?

Girdles.

Now that my drains are out, I've been asked by the plastic surgeon to wear a girdle to keep my belly incision moving along on the path to healing.  And I'm trying to follow doctor's orders.  I've worn some forms of shapewear over the years, but mostly for the upper parts of my anatomy.  To push up things that wanted to sag, as it were.  Since I usually wear pants, I haven't really had a need to wear a girdle. 

I was clueless.  So very clueless.

In the movies and television shows, women just pop girdles right on, without a second thought or a tug.  That's false advertising.  I have to fight with what is cutely known as a "hi-waisted panty", because people don't even want to think about the word 'girdle'. I have no idea why that word has such negative connotations!  I have such a time even getting my legs into the contraption.  Then I have to gyrate madly while pulling this anaconda-skin over my big butt.  It ends with me wrestling said garment over my incision, without destroying the gauze packing, until everything is up to bra level.  I would have an easier time trying to pull on a wet suit for a trip to the Bahamas.  As it is, I look like I'm having a seizure, or dancing some obscure tribal rain dance.(Which might be true--there's rain in the forecast next week!)

And with girdles, I've discovered that the size matters.  If the girdle had very firm compression, I have to buy a larger size than expected, otherwise I pass out from lack of oxygen.  If the compression is a bit more gentle, I can get by with a smaller size and feel like the petite flower I want to be. 

Once the girdle is on?

That is when things start itching underneath the girdle.  Itching and sweating.  In this situation, you just cannot lightly scratch over the girdle.  It's like you're wearing a body cast; only a coat hanger will do.  And going to the bathroom presents a challenge as well, since I'm stuck trying to wrestle everything down before I pee my pants, followed by more wrestling to get everything back into place. As someone recovering from surgery, I fail to see how this is therapeutic. 

I have to sleep in this contraption, too!  For the next six weeks. 

That's when I decided that the fifties weren't for me, or any other time when girdles were required.  Call me a rampant feminist, but I prefer to breathe the free air unrestricted by the boundaries set by men...and their undergarments.